


Revelation

by quixoticlie



Series: Things Left Unsaid [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Inspired by Music, John is an idiot, M/M, Memory, Mr. Brightside, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, So is Sherlock, The Killers - Freeform, a bit of a casefic, ish, not a songfic, sexual identity crisis, story inspired by a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticlie/pseuds/quixoticlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He stood up to put the mug in the sink, footsteps a bit uneven as he, for what had to be the thousandth time in the week since The Kiss, decided to go over the events of that night, as he remembered them happening. He was going to allow himself this small indulgence, once more, and then he was going to put the lid back on this box that had seemingly sprung open out of nowhere, tuck it back safely within himself, and watch it gather dust. No one ever had to know that for as much as he was even telling himself that he couldn't want this, that he didn't want this, and that it was insane... the thought of kissing, having, possessing Sherlock Holmes was an all consuming fire that had taken over John Watson's life."</p>
<p>John is faced with the unsettling fact that he very definitely shared a kiss with Sherlock Holmes, very possibly may want to do it again, and has no idea what to do with his traitorous brain as he spends an rare and coveted quiet afternoon alone at Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It was only a kiss...

**Author's Note:**

> This story is tentatively set somewhere between The Blind Banker and The Great Game.

I'm coming out of my cage  
And I’ve been doing just fine  
Gotta gotta be down  
Because I want it all  
It started out with a kiss  
How did it end up like this?  
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss

** John **

It had been a week since The Kiss. John wasn't really aware of when it had gone from just a kiss to The Kiss, but recognising the shift of it in his mind set his teeth on edge a bit. He stared down at the steam curling up from the cup of tea that he assumed he had made, as Sherlock was off doing god knows what... _Not that he would have made me tea, anyway, unless it was part of an experiment or something equally as demeaning..._ John sighed and put the mug down rubbing his face rather roughly. He realised belatedly that he had used the mug that was unconsciously deigned 'Sherlock's mug', and wondered if there was some sort of reason for that.

This was mad. This was completely and totally insane. It had been a slip, an accident most likely, and something that appeared to leave Sherlock completely unaffected after the fact. It hadn't even lasted very long, and wasn't ever spoken about again. John wasn't even sure if Sherlock had realised that he'd kissed him at all, for as much attention the small act had garnered. Picking up the mug again, John took a sip, knowing that if Sherlock had put it out of his mind so effortlessly, the only polite, rational, and _reasonable_ thing to do would be to do the same. He had no reason to sit here and try to analyse the situation, as there wasn't at all a situation to begin with. Anyway, there were more important matters that John meant to be contending with at the moment, none of which involved his mad flatmate, and what may-or-may-not have transpired between them.

That was the thing, though, wasn't it? The event had turned over and over in John's mind so completely that he was starting to doubt that it had even happened. Was it some sort of daydream that John had wanted so badly that he'd convinced himself was the truth? He chuckled uncomfortably, shifting in his chair as he thought. No... no, because John hadn't even been aware that he'd wanted anything like this until it had happened. He was actually still rather convinced that he wasn't sure he wanted it, even now. Just because he seemed to be obsessing over the thing, doesn't mean that he wanted it to happen again, did he?

Of course he didn't want it to happen again. He was straight and that was that. Case closed.

Right?

John made a frustrated noise and drained his mug, pounding the tea back as if it held something much, much stronger. Not that John would be drinking again any time soon, of course. Because that was what had started this whole mess. This whole stupid, mind-garbling thing had started because John had drank too much, was high on the conclusion of a case, and he'd let his guard down. He stood up to put the mug in the sink, footsteps a bit uneven as he, for what had to be the thousandth time in the week since The Kiss, decided to go over the events of that night, as he remembered them happening. He was going to allow himself this small indulgence, once more, and then he was going to put the lid back on this box that had seemingly sprung open out of nowhere, tuck it back safely within himself, and watch it gather dust. No one ever had to know that for as much as he was even telling himself that he couldn't want this, that he didn't want this, and that it was insane... the thought of kissing, having, possessing Sherlock Holmes was an all consuming fire that had taken over John Watson's life.

No one ever had to know.

Having put his mug into the sink, John returned to his chair, checking the time. He had some time to spare, and as he almost never got the flat quiet and to himself, he was going to take advantage of it, tip his head back, and relive what he had sworn to himself just the night before that he wasn't going to think about any more.

_They'd been tracking the suspect in a bar, working undercover. The poisonings were happening at this specific bar, they knew, but they hadn't figured out quite yet if it was one of the bartenders, one of the waitresses, or a regular bar patron that was doing the poisoning. Sherlock had, of course, proposed that he go alone to the bar to check it out, set himself up as bait, but he had to have known that John wasn't going to go for that sort of thing. After nearly half an hour of squabbling about the specifics of the stake-out, Lestrade watching with rapt amusement the entire time, and finally interjecting his own opinion, they'd decided that John should be the one set up as bait, belly up to the bar, while Sherlock observed from a distance, watching everything that went on. John liked this prospect, as he got to drink all night on the Yard's bill, he got to sit and make chatter with the very pretty bartender who was called Candace, and, most importantly, Sherlock wasn't in direct danger. That last bit seemed a bit odd, rolling around in his brain, but the more he drank, the more he didn't care that it was odd. Sherlock was his best friend, of course he'd rather him not be in harm's way._

_With his earpiece in, John had been instructed to talk, flirt, smile, drink... drink... drink... He wasn't sure when he stopped being instructed to drink, and started ordering things on his own, but he had just gotten a drink that he assumed he had ordered, grinning charmingly at Candace, and lifting it with a “cheers, love” when he was nearly knocked off of his barstool by a lanky, brilliant, mad detective. Sherlock grinned at him, bright eyed, affecting a drawl and staggering as if he were as drunk as John felt. John's drink was spilled all over the bar, making Sherlock giggle and John stand up quickly, swaying where he was, to keep from getting spilled drink all over his trousers. “Watch it!” he said, frowning, and Candace sighed, shaking her head. “Am I gonna have to throw you out, mate?” she asked Sherlock, looking none too pleased. In fact, she didn't much look very pretty, any more. John frowned as she seemed to glare venom daggers at Sherlock, and the spilled drink, and John started to put together what was going on. As Candace leaned to pick up the spilled glass, a rag in her hand to clean it up, Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist, suddenly sober._

_John blinked and looked up as Lestrade and a few of the team came into the bar, swarming them both. Sherlock released her wrist as Lestrade took up his place, telling someone to get the surveillance footage, and John's head swam as he was pulled away roughly by the arm. “Sherlock, come off it” he slurred, blinking around as he was tugged outside._

_“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked firmly, eyes darting quickly over John. He took his pulse with one hand, and swiped a finger over John's lower lip with the other. John shivered, which was due to suddenly being outside in the cooler air, he assumed. No other reason for it. Sherlock sniffed the finger he'd just swiped John's lip with and, seeming satisfied, he took each off John's hands in each of his own, holding them out straight and slightly in his palms as he studied them. John snorted, grinning, and slapping his hands down on Sherlock's in a sort of high-five motion, which made Sherlock look up, bewildered, at John's behaviour. John just chuckled again and leaned against the wall next to the door, Sherlock shaking his head as Lestrade came out to meet them._

_John was lost in his own drunk head and his own thoughts as Sherlock conferred quietly with Lestrade. At one point, they both looked up at John, who waved and had a goofy grin on his face, making Lestrade laugh and nod, clapping Sherlock on his back. The next thing John knew, he was in a cab and they were on their way home, both laughing now about the case, and John asking what had happened and how he'd known and what he'd seen, and generally just grinning up at Sherlock as if he'd hung the moon. Sherlock stared at him for a bit, to which John just smiled more, unaware of anything being too off._

_Then they were home, John wondering if he'd nodded off in the cab, but figuring that it didn't matter, as long as he got upstairs, and some food, and in bed. He was starving, suddenly, and was thinking about what he could safely make while drunk as he mounted the stairs to their flat. He was behind Sherlock, so when he finally got all of the way upstairs and into the flat, closing the door behind him, he figured that Sherlock would be off in a flurry of movement, stripping his coat and flopping on his chair, and demanding tea, or something equally as difficult for Drunk John to provide him with. Instead, he turned around to find Sherlock standing right in front of him, his light eyes ablaze with manic energy, fingers dancing restlessly up his own thighs as if even they weren't sure how to deal with this change in habit._

_John didn't remember stepping forward, but he must have, as Sherlock wouldn't have done such a thing, surely, but John was there, very much in Sherlock's personal space. His hands were on the detective's shoulders, and Sherlock's restless hands were now dancing on John's hips very softly, and Sherlock was bending down and Sherlock, and Sherlock, and..._

_John gasped slightly, the feeling of Sherlock's warm, soft, plush lips against his own making him dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with how much he had drank. Sherlock's teeth took John's lower lips between them and pulled very slightly as John pushed himself closer, wanting everything. He wanted it all. John had only gotten a tiny taste, a slight feeling of Sherlock's tongue brushing against his lower lip before the Detective seemed to realise what it was that he was doing. Maybe it was the soft sigh of near relief that John had let escape, but the spell was broken, either way. Sherlock looked flustered and flushed, eyes wide and staring as he stepped back a pace... then another. “My apologies, John.” was murmured as Sherlock's eyebrow twitched in a way that made John's chest tighten._

_Sherlock was gone, then, leaving John swaying just inside the doorway in their sitting room. After a while, John blinked, looking around, and frowning. He shook his head and staggered his way up to his room. He forgot that he was hungry, and that he wanted tea, and that he wanted a shower. He was suddenly exhausted and unsettled, and he wasn't quite sure why, but he felt a strange sort of warmth in him that made it much easier to go to sleep than he would have thought, having nearly been poisoned in a bar just an hour before..._

John was snapped out of his memories by his mobile alerting him to a new text message received. He pulled it out and read it, stomach clenching before he realised that the text wasn't, as expected, from Sherlock. It was from Maureen, a girl who he'd texted earlier in a desperate attempt to give himself something to worry about that wasn't Sherlock and The stupid bloody Kiss.

**7 is gr8. I'll snd addy soon. C U then. Xx Maureen**

Well. That settled that. He had a date, tonight, and he needed to get ready for it. Getting ready for a date that had nothing to do with Sherlock, or Sherlock's lips, or Sherlock's interference, or thinking about any of the above. A nice, mind numbing, normal dinner and date and a girl and...

The door to the street opened and banged shut. “John! I finally got the ballistics report from...” He heard and groaned, getting up and heading to the bathroom to have a shower. “Busy, Sherlock!” He called from inside the bathroom, leaning against the door after he started the water, so that if Sherlock were tempted to try and open the door, he'd have no luck. “Showering. Have a date.” he said, voice clipped as Sherlock rattled the door handle. At that news, the rattling stopped, making John's heart pound for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Sherlock stepped away from the door without another word, turning, and headed back into the sitting room. John heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes to himself before he got undressed and into the shower, more than determined to pretend as if he were as unaffected as Mister ballistics report in the other room.

An hour later, he'd showered, shaved, dressed, fretted, paced, changed, and come downstairs to find Sherlock on the settee, in his thinking pose. John rolled his eyes and pocketed his mobile, wallet, and keys. “I'm off, then. I'll see you.” he said, to which he, of course, got no reply to. Sherlock didn't even move, really, leaving John to raise an eyebrow before he rolled his eyes again and left, closing the door and jogging down the stairs, telling himself that this was for the best. He was protecting himself, really. If he let himself think about it too terribly much, he'd just get found out and dissected and John really, really didn't want that at all.

It took him longer to get a taxi than it would have done if he were with Sher-... No. No this date didn't include him.

John straightened his dinner jacket, raised his chin, and eventually got a taxi, directing it to Maureen's flat. He would have a lovely date, a nice dinner, and if he were lucky, he wouldn't be getting home until quite a bit later that night... or in the morning.


	2. It's all in my head...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's left for his date, and Sherlock's left with his thoughts.

Now I’m falling asleep  
And she’s calling a cab  
While he’s having a smoke  
And she’s taking a drag  
Now they’re going to bed  
And my stomach is sick  
And it’s all in my head  
But she’s touching his chest, now  
He takes off her dress, now  
Letting me go

**Sherlock**

 

Sherlock counted the seconds that he knew it would take John to:

-get out to the road

-try to hail a cab

-fail

-smooth down his jacket

-try again

-fail

-say something rude to the passing cab that would earn him a scandalised look from one of the older ladies who was inevitably walking down the sidewalk at the moment

-apologise and blush

-try to hail a cab for a third time

-finally get one to stop for him.

When he knew that it was likely that John was, at that very moment, just opening the door to a cab and ducking inside of it, Sherlock bounded off of the couch and to the window to be able to watch without John knowing that he was doing so. Sherlock was only a bit off in his timing, which made him scowl to himself as he drew the curtains back minutely to watch John's progress. He had just gotten a cab to stop, but didn't look up as he got in. He did, however, pause, which made Sherlock's eyebrows twitch in slight surprise. John got into the cab, though, despite the hesitation, making Sherlock scowl again and slink back to where he had been before after the cab had disappeared from sight.

This whole business was unnecessary and deeply unwanted. And unprecedented. And unwelcome. And any other un-word that Sherlock could think of at the moment. Unpleasant. Unsatisfactory.

Unavoidable. Undeniable.

He made a deeply frustrated sound and flopped gracefully onto his back, dressing gown flying out on either side of him, forgotten. His arms came up so that he could press the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to breathe deeply and clear his mind, definitely trying not to think of what he was sure was going on at this exact moment. Trying not to pre-deduce the evening as he knew that it was likely to unfold. It was pointless, really, as the variables of a certain evening would always differ, and there was no way to correctly predict the way an evening of John trying to woo yet another obnoxious female would unfold. Sherlock, however, had knowledge of how John had conducted many of his dates in the past, and so he had a bit of an idea of how the night would go.

He checked his phone. No texts, no calls. 19.15. If John was picking up his date, as the text suggested that Sherlock had read while John was “Busy. Showering. Date.”, taking into account the traffic at this time of night, and the choices of restaurants that John would inevitably choose from, John was probably just arriving, with his date, at an eatery. He was probably flashing his charming smile that seemed to completely disarm the person at which it was pointed, smoothing his hands down the front of his jacket, again, a hand in the small of her back with a gentle possessiveness that made her smile at him like-

Another frustrated sound, louder, and he launched out of his seat, again. He paced the floor boards until his mind calmed, and the mental image of some woman simpering at a flustered and flattered John Watson had cleared out from his mind. He shook his head as if he could, like an etch-a-sketch, remove the last dregs of the thought. It mostly worked... as well as it normally did where John was concerned. Sherlock let out a slow breath and straightened his posture, each vertebrae in his spine sliding into alignment with an ease that was ingrained in everything that he was. While his posture resumed it's normal rigidity, Sherlock put himself in a frame of mind that would carry him through the evening without him ending up shooting at the wall or, worse, out on the streets, prowling for a different distraction. He may be upset with the situation, but he owed John more than that. No... he could easily handle this. This was a cake walk. It wasn't even worth thinking about, anymore, so he wasn't going to. At all.

His violin was out, next, and for a time he just held it between his shoulder and chin and stared out the window. 20.23. He shook his head as he realised that he'd been standing at the window for that long, frowning at the glass as if it had personally affronted him. Before he could start playing, however, as his hand brought the bow up, his traitorous brain supplied a volley of information to him.

_Finished with the meal, possibly lingering over coffee and dessert, if the date went well. The date must have gone well as I have made it a point to keep from texting John, seeing as he got very angry the last time. Definitely not texting so that John won't get upset, and not for the reason that I have spent so long tonight ruminating over John's evening that I haven't had the time to even think about ruining said date. No matter. The date has likely gone well, much to John's surprise and delight, one would think, and he's likely smiling at her, and she's likely giggling insipidly and batting her overly-made up eyes at him, and he's taking the bait, because he's an idiot and can't help himself, and he thinks he_ needs _this sort of thing, which he doesn't, because he's got me, and it's so_ obvious _, if he would only open his eyes. But he doesn't._

The violin let out a squawking sound as Sherlock's bow arm ripped down through the air angrily, and he paced to the door and back, and did so again, before he put the instrument down on his chair, fingers running through his shaggy hair. He was meant to be distracted from that line of thinking, not bombarded by it. His current plan of action was obviously not working, and so he needed something different. Something to take his mind off of what John would be doing at that very moment. _Perhaps Lestrade had texted_ His brain provided, helpfully, even though he knew it wasn't true, and that it was very definitely an awful cover for needing to check the time.

21.07.

_Perhaps they decided to walk leisurely back to her place, as he wouldn't be the type to just send her off in a cab with a wave and a smile. Not when things are going so well, and she's smiling at him as if he were everything to her when she doesn't even know the half of what it is that makes up John Watson. She'll likely never know, and worse, she won't care. Worse than that, for John, she doesn't deserve to know or to care, or to have him, but she does... because they're walking home, and their shoulders likely bump as they walk, laughing at stupid things... I've seen it happen more than I can count amongst couples who are new in their acquaintance. They'll be getting to her flat, soon, depending on where John's taken her to eat, and they stand at the door, pretending as if they won't both be going inside... stupid small talk, as if they both don't know exactly what it is they're doing at that door in the first place..._

Sherlock growled and launched himself to his room, tearing at his closet, inside the left shoe of the battered trainers that were part of one of his disguises. A mostly full pack of cigarettes, and a lighter, supposedly for the same disguise. They'll do for now, and he'll replace them at his earliest convenience, of course. Going back into the sitting room, he wrenched the window open, clutching his dressing gown and the cigarettes to his chest as he climbed half out onto the ledge, leaning against the edge of the window. Sherlock sat there with his eyes closed for a moment before he gave a bit of a shake, like a giant bird of prey shuffling his feathers back in place on it's perch, waiting. He lit a cigarette, staring down at the comings and goings of Baker Street, trying to deduce what he could, without his mind wandering...

_They'd probably gotten past the awkward small talk, now, and have dropped all pretense of just 'having coffee' or something seemingly innocent that they tell themselves and each other to keep some sense of propriety or... something. They're probably kissing... something much more involved that what I had allowed myself, which was reckless and completely unwise of me in the first place, of course, but now it's her that he's kissing, and has his hands on, and is pressing close to. I wonder if he's making that same intoxicating noise back in his throat as he had after the case... No matter. None of it matters. The noise he's making has no bearing on what events are likely to be occurring. Unless, of course, the noise spurs her on, as it made me want to._

_Perhaps she's got his jacket off, if he hadn't taken it off before. Of course he hadn't taken it off. That would be presumptuous of him, and he'd not do something like that. So she's taking it off, now. He's smiling that little quip of a thing that he does when something pleases him. Maybe he's taking charge of the situation. Maybe he's got her to a wall. Maybe he's taking off her dress, or pressing her wrists together, or..._

Sherlock threw the burnt down filter of the cigarette that he'd forgotten about and quite literally gagged, hanging onto the window frame as he was jolted by the thoughts happening. His arms were shaking, and his eyes were wide, as if terrified, and maybe, in a way, he was. He swallowed and slid rather ungracefully back into the house, still clinging to the window when he realised that his legs didn't feel like holding his weight just now. The pack of cigarettes and the lighter clattered to the floor, but he paid them no mind, nor did he close the window. He was lucky, in his mind, to make it back to the couch.

How had this even happened? How had it gotten this far? Sherlock hadn't planned for this, hadn't wanted it, even. He hadn't expected or looked for this. This was thrust upon him unwillingly, and he wasn't happy for it, not at all. He was sick. He wasn't sure what this churning was in his stomach, but it was apparently a good thing that John had avoided him that day and hadn't forced him to eat, because he felt as if it would all come back up if he made any sort of sudden move. Above everything else, currently, Sherlock was infuriated. He was above things of this nature. He had conquered anything remotely close to being ruled by other people, and being torn and twisted by their whims, whether they knew they were doing it or not. He'd had practice, at this. He'd had years to hone his skills at evasion, and he knew, he _knew_ that this wasn't him. This wasn't like him. Pining over some man who wasn't even...

22.00

Sherlock swallowed heavily, the heels of his hands coming to his eyes again as he pushed hard... then pushed even harder. He allowed himself one shout. One frustrated, anguished, angry shout. ...then he assured Mrs. Hudson that he was alright and, no, didn't want tea.

22.11.

He wondered if they were done fucking, yet, and if John would stay there, or come home.

22.15

He wondered if he wanted John to stay there, or come home.

22.16

_This is ridiculous. Think of something else. Anything else._

_Hydrogen. Atomic weight is 1.0079_

_Helium. Atomic weight is 4.0026_

_Lithium. Atomic weight is 6.941_

_Beryllium. Atomic weight is 9.0122_

_Boron. Atomic weight is 10.811..._

_Carbon... Nitrogen... Oxygen..._

_**Oxygen...**   
_


	3. Open up my eager eyes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home late from his date, and Sherlock refuses to see the evidence of a date gone well... until his curiosity gets the best of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So THIS took forever. Sorry to... anyone actually following this, if you exist out there. I've had an insane time of things since the new year started...
> 
> This is also much shorter than my other chapters, but it seemed to be finished, in my head. I'm starting work on the next story in this series, if this seems unfinished. This will pick back up, and feel more emotionally complete, with the next story.

**And I just can’t look - it's killing me**   
**And taking control**   
**Jealousy, turning saints into the sea**   
**Turning through sick lullabies**   
**Choking on your alibis**   
**But it’s just the price I pay**   
**Destiny is calling me**   
**Open up my eager eyes**   
**‘Cause I’m Mr Brightside**

 

Four hours after John had left Baker Street on his date, Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch, in his thinking pose, exactly as he had been four hours before. Sherlock had, of course, had a full evening of emotional turmoil and quite a bit of pacing, and the tiniest bit of running to his room and back. However, as soon as he heard the uneven tread ( _drunk, John? Really?)_ on the stairs, Sherlock knew the first thing that John would direct at him... and he wasn't disappointed.

“Have you _honestly_ not moved at _all_ since I've left, you lazy git?”

Sherlock could hear the slight slur in John's voice, but he wasn't about to torture himself any more than he had already that night. He was very certainly not at all going to deduce John's night. He didn't want to prove himself right. Thinking about what was likely to happen on John's date was enough... Sherlock didn't need the evidence shoved in his face, thank you. He'd had quite enough of John's date, and he hadn't even been spying on it this time, or texting John for updates throughout the evening.

Sherlock stood up, abruptly, making John startle, as he'd just come a bit closer to ask if he wanted tea, or if he'd eaten, or a million other things that John seemed to do on a daily basis that both drove Sherlock mad, and made a warm sort of affection glow in his heart. Sherlock refused to look at John, didn't want to be near him. He didn't want the concern, didn't want the worry. He didn't want to _see_ what John had been up to, just from small bit of evidence left on his person... he especially didn't want that. He blew past a confused looking John, who just stood there like an idiot while Sherlock bustled into the kitchen, pulling out an old slide that had some sort of mould on it, and looking through his microscope. He hoped that John wasn't observant enough to realise that Sherlock had been finished with this experiment two days previously, and that he was really studying absolutely nothing, but John never really observed the important things anyway, so he figured he'd be safe.

“Lestrade says hullo, by the way.” John ventured, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, frowning at the back of Sherlock's head. “Says that he'll likely be calling on you, tomorrow, so don't get into anything major here at home that you'd pout about ruining because it was time sensitive.”

Sherlock let out a slight noise that he'd heard him, and other that a pause, and slight stiffening of his shoulders at the mention of John seeing Lestrade that night, he didn't move. Lestrade? Wasn't John meant to be on a date? Then again, perhaps he'd simply run into Lestrade while on said date, and had exchanged pleasantries with the man, before returning to the woman he'd taken out. That was, though odd, a possibility. He grumbled to himself as he adjusted the microscope and listened to John moving around the table to check the kettle, making sure there was still good water in it. He made a face and filled it up, again, pressing the button to start it going as he busied himself getting together the things to make tea. Two teacups, making Sherlock wish that he'd made some excuse to close himself in his room.

“Is it odd that I found it... odd... that my phone didn't beep, tonight? Not once?” John said in a casual way that was much too forced to actually be casual at all.

Sherlock frowned hard as he peered into the microscope at nothing, fighting everything inside of himself to keep his eyes from flicking up to see what John was on about. He'd always made such noise at Sherlock's interference before, why, suddenly, was he bemoaning the same thing that he railed against? It made no sense, and Sherlock's curiosity was an itch that he was desperate to scratch. He refused to, however, and his self control was notoriously impeccable... under normal circumstances.

“Not that you texting would have actually hurt the cause more than it was already hurt. The thing went down like a lead balloon nearly instantly. Didn't even finish dinner, actually” he said with a tight, awkward chuckle. “Ended up calling and begging Lestrade to have a pint with me, which turned into three, which... well. Which brings me here” he said, as if that explained everything, and tied it up with a nice little bow, to boot.

This, of course, was the statement that made Sherlock look up at John, carefully putting tea bags into cups as the kettle worked. He took everything about the situation in in an instant, as much as he could with John's back turned. Mussed hair (From running frustrated hands through?), rumpled shirt, but only at the bottom (Sitting mainly on a stool, not a chair with a back as would crease the entire back of the shirt), shoes scuffed and sticking slightly to the floor when left on for too long (Indicative of a bar room floor)... and when John turned around, Sherlock's eyebrows raised slowly. He was well on his way to drunk, but definitely not there, yet. His eyes looked tired, he looked... resigned. He looked nearly as put through the ringer as Sherlock felt he had been, which made the dark haired man sit back a bit, trying not to show the confusion on his face.

“This is the bit where you say you knew the date wasn't going to go well, and that I'm an idiot for keeping on with dates, or something” John said with a chuckle, preparing Sherlock's cup perfectly, as always, setting it next to the microscope, before turning back around to prepare his own. Sherlock said nothing, staring at his tea, instead, and wondering why a date that he was talking so flippantly about seemed to have rattled the ex-soldier so much. He looked up again, as John turned around from putting the milk away, trying to deduce what was in his head from the look on his face. As much as John, and others, thought that Sherlock could read minds, he really couldn't.

“I wasn't going to say that, at all” Sherlock said, belatedly, when he realised that John was waiting for him to speak, as he hadn't since John had come in. Apparently, the emotional roller coaster of the evening hadn't finished as much as Sherlock thought it had. Looking up to John, he purposefully let his mask slip a bit, testing to see if there was any positive physiological reaction to John seeing that he'd been having quite a hard time of things at the prospect of John out on a date. “I... was hoping you'd find what you were... looking for” he concluded, looking up for just a moment longer, before looking back down, and resolutely taking up his tea, slipping his blank façade back into place.

John stiffened, and Sherlock counted the reactions as they happened, and as John's beer-soaked mind caught on to what it thought Sherlock's little display just meant. John's breath caught (one), from the wrist that Sherlock could see out of his peripheral, his heart rate increased in a short amount of time (two), a quick glance up showed Sherlock that his pupils had dilated (three), John had swallowed needlessly three times in a short amount of time (four), and his sticky shoes were shifting rather awkwardly (five).

John cleared his throat, a bit, and shifted once more.

“I think I did, actually.” He said, before starting toward the front room, pausing in the doorway between his intended tea drinking chair and the kitchen, “I think I very much found what I was looking for.” 


End file.
